Beneath the dust of travel the young man's face burned with anger. “We're not discussing that just now. What I say is that you had no right to bring him here—not now, especially. You know why,” he added, almost in a whisper.
“If you had waited and not attempted to brow-beat me, I would have shown you that that is the very reason I had to bring him.”
“How do you mean?”
“Never mind what I mean. You have insulted my friend, and through him, me. That is enough for one day.” She turned from him haughtily and spoke to the Texan. “If you are ready, Mr. Fraser, we'll be going now.”
The ranger, whose fingers had been itching to get at the throat of this insolent young man, turned without a word and obediently brought the girl's pony, then helped her to mount. Briscoe glared, in a silent tempest of passion.
“I think I have left a glove and my anemones where we were sitting,” the girl said sweetly to the Texan.
Fraser found them, tightened the saddle girth, and mounted Teddy. As they cantered away, Arlie called to him to look at the sunset behind the mountains.
From the moment of her dismissal of Briscoe the girl had apparently put him out of her thoughts. No fine lady of the courts could have done it with more disdainful ease. And the Texan, following her lead, played his part in the little comedy, ignoring the other man as completely as she did.
The young cattleman, furious, his teeth set in impotent rage, watched it all with the lust to kill in his heart. When they had gone, he flung himself into the saddle and rode away in a tumultuous fury.
Before they had covered two hundred yards Arlie turned to her companion, all contrition. “There! I've done it again. My fits of passion are always getting me into trouble. This time one of them has given you an enemy, and a bad one, too.”